"I'm not a cop."
The first man said something in rapid French. The second laughed—wet and phlegmy.
"American?"
"Yeah."
"American cop?"
"Not a cop." My patience was already thinning. "I want to fight. That's it."
They looked at each other, having an entire conversation without words. Finally, the first man shrugged.
"You know how to fight?"
"Of course."
"Of course." He mocked my accent. "Everyone know how to fight until they are on ground bleeding."
I said nothing.
The second man pulled a cigarette and lit it, smoke curling toward the ceiling. "Maybe you are spy. CIA. Maybe you want to shut us down."
"If I wanted to shut you down, I wouldn't walk through the front door."
That earned me a grunt that might have been approval.
The first man leaned forward. "You want fight, okay. But first, we see if you are real or just American tourist who watch too many movies."
"Fine."
"Rules are simple. No balls. No eyes."
I stared at him. "What?"
The second man stood, reaching down to cup his crotch while poking two fingers toward his eyes. "No balls. No eyes. Everything else—" He shrugged. "Is permitted."
Right.
"When?"
The first man glanced at his watch. "One hour. Maybe two."
"Maybe two?"
Another shrug. "Is busy night."
It was three hours.
Three hours on a metal folding chair, watching fights that ranged from competent to embarrassing. Three hours of the fat men pushing drinks—beer, whiskey, something homemade and probably illegal.
I stuck with water.
They had a buffet—cheese, bread, meat I couldn't identify. I didn't touch it. Paranoia or experience, either way, I wasn't eating anything I hadn't prepared myself.
The fat men found that funny.
"American thinks we poison him," one said loudly, laughing.
